


Pillow Talk

by Cosmo_Donatien



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, eventual angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_Donatien/pseuds/Cosmo_Donatien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I - "If we continue this ‘affair’ you are aware that I am likely to never tell you what you want to hear?”</p><p>II - The monster was loose, and she smiled sadly that this was the last display of passion she would witness from him.</p><p>III - Violet. Her eyes were violet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Abigail Hobbs woke slowly to the sound of birdsong, long lashes fluttering against her pale cheeks before her eyes squinted open against the shaft of light pouring through the half-drawn curtains across her pillow. Carefully, she turned from the light to face her bedmate; he slept on, the light hadn’t reached his side of the bed yet. She took a moment to study him in his vulnerable sleeping state; his lashes created dark crescents atop his sharp cheekbones, those wide and sensuous lips were slightly parted as his deep and even breaths escaped them. With such arresting and alien features she had considered Hannibal Lecter to be more like some imagined sculpture of a person rather than the work of genetics just like everybody else, however she had seen the man beneath the suits and the dinner parties and the bloodlust, albeit a man like no other and it surprised her that this revelation did nothing to lessen the intrigue she felt for him; he was still a mystery, the puzzle she wanted to solve above all others. Hannibal inhaled sharply as he roused from slumber, breaking Abigail’s reverie and bringing her back to the present; he cracked his eyes open slightly, red irises swivelling in their sockets, seeking her.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” she greeted softly, gaining her a lazy smile from those lips. He blinked a couple of times to rid himself of the last vestiges of sleep, frowned at the light, slipped out of the bed and padded nude to the window to close the curtains, blocking all light from entering the room; he moved back around to his side of the bed and flicked the bedside lamp on before climbing back under the covers, laying on his side to face her. “Sleep well?” she asked with a shy smile.

“Too well,” he murmured, his voice croaky and thick with sleep. Abigail felt a surge of affection and reached her hand up to smooth his silver-streaked hair out of his face, frowning as it fell back across his forehead. “It’s impossible at this length,” he commented, puffing his breath upwards to blow the offending fringe out of his eyes, eliciting a soft laugh from her. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked solemnly and Abigail nodded, biting her lip in anticipation; Hannibal leaned closer to her face and dropped his voice to a low murmur: “Hairspray.”

Abigail snorted at his ‘secret’ and rolled over on to her back to laugh it off. Hannibal followed her movement and wrapped his arm around her waist, resting his chin on her bare shoulder, his breath tickling the hairs at the base of her neck. “I won’t tell a soul,” she promised after recovering her composure and he tightened his arm briefly in acknowledgement.

The pair fell into companionable silence; Hannibal idly stroked the silken skin of her side as she wound her hand into his hair to run her nails lightly across his scalp. He released a low hum of appreciation and angled his head to maximise the attention she was giving him, all the while keeping the same slow stroke up and down her side with an occasional foray across her ribs to trace the underside of a breast. Abigail stopped scratching and he shifted his position to better see her face.

“What are you thinking?” he questioned in earnest, cocking his head to one side, eyes scanning her face.

“Nothing,” she smiled, turning towards him.

“I know when you lie,” he told her in a matter-of-fact tone, giving her bottom a light swat with his hand before smoothing over the skin.

Abigail gave an exaggerated sigh, “I was thinking about...”

“Yes?” he pressed, eager to know.

“You. And me.”

“What about us?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbow and effectively removing himself from her person.

Abigail sat up to explain, the duvet falling to her waist. “Exactly; is there an ‘us’?”

“There has always been an us, Abigail.”

“I mean an us outside of my father, Will, the FBI and our hunts.” With each gesture she made her small breasts swayed, and Hannibal admired the flush that began to spread across her chest as her awkwardness at the conversation began to show.

“Ah, ‘us’ in the domestic bliss sense?” he asked, his tone that of knowing rather than innocent query.

“Well, you wash and I dry,” she offered, dropping her hands to her lap. She seemed to realise how uncovered she was and made a move to pull the duvet back up but he stopped her movement by covering her hands with his.

“I suppose there is an element of domesticity in our relationship,” he admitted, pleased to feel her grip on the duvet slacken.

“So this is a relationship,” she stated bluntly, not wanting to give away how she felt about their developing situation.

“I suppose it is,” he responded, smiling at her.

“Do you mean it?”

“I do,” he paused to run his hand through his hair, not entirely sure how his next words would go over.

“Although?”

“Although if we continue this... ‘affair’,” the word didn’t fit and he could practically taste its rankness, “you are aware that I am likely to never tell you what you want to hear?”

“And what do I want to hear?”

“I’ll give you a clue: three little words.”

“I don’t need to hear them,” she replied with a certainty that told him she hadn’t thought it through at all.

“Maybe not now, but one day you will want to,” he assured her with a certainty borne from years of experience.

“Maybe I’ll hear them from somebody else,” she stated.

“I won’t share.” He gave her a look that promised danger; he also wanted to add ‘my things’ to his response but thought better of it – she wouldn’t appreciate it.

“I mean way down the line,” she explained. “You will tire of me one day, I know it; I can’t hope to keep your attention forever. If you don’t kill me then I intend to be in a position to move on and find somebody.” He rolled on to his back and laughed at her words. “What’s so funny?” she demanded hotly.

“Abigail Hobbs, I would never entertain the idea of killing you.”

“I doubt that.” He stopped chuckling suddenly and shot her a questioning look. “Let’s try this – you tell me you love me or you kill me, which is more likely?”

“You make it sound like an ultimatum,” he stated, scratching at his arm as he considered her question. “Must I answer this now?”

“Yes,” she responded in a tone that brooked no argument.

“Come here,” he beckoned, opening his arms to her. She nestled herself against his chest but kept herself at eye level with him, clearly wanting an answer. He folded his arms around her and pulled her tightly against him, sighing deeply. “I cannot tell you I love you because I do not, and cannot. You will not change this. I will not kill you because I am far too interested in you, in every sense of the word, to waste the opportunity to watch you become whatever it is you want to be.” She stared at him, blue eyes wide as she processed his words. “However, I do care to see you succeed and that you are well looked after, and who better to meet my standards than myself?” Hannibal hoped that ending on a more jovial note would end the conversation – he was never a good participant in this sort of topic and felt increasingly uncomfortable with her line of questioning, despite being as truthful as he could with her.

“I think I’m happy with that,” she responded after a few minutes spent turning his words over in her head.

“I am glad to have provided some measure of security,” he responded flatly.

Abigail beamed at his humour and pressed her lips to his in what was intended as a chaste but reassuring kiss; Hannibal took the opportunity that presented itself and responded with a little more force, pushing her back to her side of the bed and covering her pale body with his own, revelling in her flaring passion. He would keep her well, and would educate her in the finer things in life; and when he did tire of her – for they both knew he would – she would be adequately prepared to survive once more.


	2. Chapter 2

_“If we continue this... ‘affair’ you are aware that I am likely to never tell you what you want to hear?”_

Hannibal’s words from two years previous rang in Abigail’s ears as she curled herself up on their bed, eyes red and puffy, freckled cheeks stained with fresh but familiar tears. How naïve she had been then, in the blushing glow of their peculiar brand of romance, to think that she would not require more from him to sate her emotional needs. He had been more than happy to give her intellectual stimulation by day and physical release by night, and had never once implied that he would rather be focusing his attentions elsewhere; he had made her feel treasured and wanted, but now...

He had been cold to her for the past two months; he no longer came to their bed and left for work without waking her in the mornings. Abigail felt smothered by the weight of her inability to understand why he had suddenly changed his mind about her... about them. If she had thought he would tell her why she would have asked in the first instance, but she knew better so kept her silence while he kept his distance. They had passed each other on the stairs just last week and he had merely inclined his head by way of curt acknowledgment – she half expected him to revert to calling her ‘Miss Hobbs,’ as he became the character of ‘Doctor Lecter’ and closed off all access to the Hannibal she had come to know.

_“I cannot tell you I love you because I do not, and cannot.”_

Her eyes burned with more tears as she berated herself for expecting that he would remain with her forever and that they would be each other’s exclusive secret keepers; a fool for expecting the impossible from him, as she later realised it was all too possible for her. She loved him, and the ache in her heart spread throughout her entire body as she reminded herself daily that he would never feel the same.

_“You will not change this.”_

Late in the afternoon she heard Hannibal’s key in the door, signalling his return from the office for the day. Abigail had gone to great lengths to make herself presentable, feeling she was putting on her armour as she hid the bags beneath her eyes with concealer and selected the outfit in which she would face him. She emerged from the bedroom and stood at the top of the stairs, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence.

“Going out, Abigail?” he enquired with a raised brow; he hadn’t even looked at her.

“No,” she responded politely, “but I wish to speak with you.”

He nodded pensively. “Very well. If you’ll allow me to put my things away,” he nodded to his briefcase and overcoat, “I shall meet you in the dining room.” Then he was gone, sweeping through the downstairs hallway to his study.

Abigail descended the stairs, her sense of unease at the situation growing with each step; what if he had changed his mind about disposing of her? Was this what his behaviour toward her, or lack thereof, was leading to? She felt the cold fingers of panic squeeze her heart and stopped at the foot of the stairs to take a deep and calming breath; he had told her he wouldn’t and she had never known him to break his word to anyone – to do so would be rude. She slipped into the dining room and seated herself in her usual place at the right hand of the head of the table; she had always thought he placed her there to express his feelings toward her, but now she realised she was wrong. Her keen ears picked up on the soft footfalls of his slippered feet approaching the dining room door and her doe-eyes followed him as he smoothly entered the room and seated himself at the head of the table, turning his head to face her rather than his body.

“You wished to speak with me?” he prompted, and she paled. He wasn’t going to make this easy.

“Why?” was all she could manage before she felt her throat start to constrict as panic settled into her bones and shook her.

“What are you referring to?” At his open and ignorant expression something within her snapped and she quashed the panic with her rising temper.

“Don’t you dare sit there and claim to know nothing,” she seethed quietly, “for two months now, Hannibal – two months – you have been like a ghost.”

“I didn’t realise my busy schedule affected you so.”

“You are home after work, you haven’t been out recently. You don’t come to bed anymore, and you never deign to speak to me; what part of this is down to your ‘busy schedule’?” she demanded, blue eyes flashing dangerously as she fought to keep her voice level. She clenched her fists so hard her fingernails broke the skin of her palms – why couldn’t he see what he was doing to her? She saw his nostrils flare and knew he had caught the scent of the blood under her nails.

“Abigail,” he began, looking her in the eyes, “there are matters that I do not care to discuss at the moment; things are not as they seem and I do not know how future events will pan out. This has been frustrating me, and I felt it best that I keep myself to myself for the time being.”

“I’m sorry Hannibal,” he nodded at her, thinking she was expressing regret for flying off the handle, “but I can’t deal with you like this. I...” She couldn’t believe the words were forming but they were pushing their way out of her; she clenched her teeth momentarily in an effort to keep them trapped but she knew they were the truth, and she was nothing if not honest with her lover. She closed her eyes against the sting of emotion and as she opened them to gaze into his concerned face a single tear escaped and trailed down her cheek. “I- I need to leave.”

He said nothing, didn’t move a muscle. Then she noticed his jaw clenching and unclenching. He nodded and looked away from her, down to the other end of the table.

“If you believe that is what you want,” he intoned evenly.

“You told me before you can’t give me what I want.”

“I did,” he acknowledged, still unmoving.

“And I believed that I didn’t need it,” she went on.

“But you do,” it wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” He closed his eyes at her response and she felt another wave of emotion threatening to sweep her into hysterics. “Excuse me,” she muttered and rose from her chair to dash back up the stairs to the bedroom. She threw herself on to the bed and sobbed into her pillow, stopping when she heard the dining room door slam with such force she was certain he had done damage to the hinges, then came the crashing of furniture and the smashing of what sounded like every breakable object being hurled across the immaculate dining room. The monster was loose, and she smiled sadly that this was the last display of passion she would witness from him; had she still seen through naïve eyes she would have dreamed that their parting would involve heated last kisses and longing glances, but she knew better than to expect such sentiments from him.

The noise downstairs ceased abruptly and Abigail listened carefully but did not hear him moving at all; she momentarily feared that he had done himself damage in his tirade, but assured herself that even when out of control he was nothing short of methodical and his movements well calculated. She cast a hand across her face, wiping away her drying tears, and rose from the bed to fetch her bag from the bottom of their wardrobe. Quickly and quietly she packed a selection of undergarments and clothing before moving to their en suite to pick up her toiletries, emerging laden with luxury body lotions and the bath salts he had purchased especially for her – they had bathed together on the last anniversary of her father’s death, and he had helped to keep her demons at bay, but only at her behest – her deodorant, toothbrush and razor were the last of the toiletries to go in the bag.

She fished her cellphone from her handbag and dialled for a cab.

As an afterthought she opened the top drawer of her bedside cabinet and retrieved the knife he had bought her after she had moved in two and a half years previous, she fingered the exquisite tortoiseshell handle and flicked the implement open, shuddering at the sound of the blade as it revealed itself – it sounded like a sharp breath, a last gasp. Maudlin, she considered this day to be their last breath; she knew that when she returned downstairs he would not see her out the door, and from then on she would be on her own – he would not come after her, he had told her as much. She placed the knife into her handbag and zipped up the bag containing her clothes before hoisting it on to her shoulder.

At the foot of the stairs Abigail paused to listen but heard nothing from behind the closed dining room door; for all she knew he had left via the patio doors at the other end of the room. She dallied at the entrance to the dining room for a moment but thought better of opening it – she didn’t want to see what he had done, not really. Instead, she paused at the console table in the hall and jotted a note, hoping that it would offer him some comfort if he needed it.

A car horn sounded outside and she hurried out of the front door, closing it softly behind herself; she made to walk to the waiting taxi, but stopped and fished around in her handbag for her keys – once she had located them she unhooked the housekey and slipped it under the doormat, hoping he would find it there. For the final time she turned away from the house and trotted down the driveway; the cab driver got out of the car and assisted her with her bags before opening the rear door for her. As the cab pulled away she fell apart again under the weight of the knowledge that the beautiful chapter of her life with the Doctor, her monster, was over and she would have to start a new one alone.

Hannibal stared, unblinking, at the carnage he had wrought on his dining room. The wallpaper was torn and stained, the herb garden opposite was strewn around the entire room; chairs were over turned and some were missing legs, the table surface now featured deep scratches and the carpet was an horrific state. Despite all of this, he could not find it in himself to care. She had left him. He had known this would happen but hadn’t expected her to be the one to leave. He’d had every intention of relocating to Florence and leaving the house in her hands to do with as she saw fit, had even been making plans over the previous two months as well as consciously distancing himself from her. It was not an easy admission for him to now realise just how deeply she had lodged herself under his skin, and he found that he had grown used to her presence in his house and in his bed; somewhere in the two years they had spent together he had come to expect her to be there regardless of his nature, manipulation or secrecy. Looking around at the ruined room and hearing nothing but silence ringing throughout the house he felt unexpectedly empty, cold and alone.

Hannibal exited the dining room and checked the console table where he was certain she would have left the key, but it wasn’t there. On the table was a folded piece of notepaper with his name on it; he unfolded the scrap and scanned the words with eyes like dying embers:

_H,_   
_There will always be an ‘Us’._   
_Take my ‘three little words’ as a keepsake._   
_Be safe,_   
_A_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his escape he found her in the strangest of places; stumbled upon her, really. He needed to know what she had spent her time doing since she left him to his jailors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a leap through time and across the globe to a post-SotL but pre-Hannibal AU... this story is now complete. If I get so much as a sniff of any more plot-bunnies for this I will shoot them on sight.

Abigail hurried the along the busy Parisian streets, grocery shopping in one hand, the other clutching her doorkeys tightly. It was him, she was certain of it, and she had felt icy tendrils of dread creep down her spine as he had turned in her direction – had he seen them? She all but ran down the side streets that led to her small terraced house.

Maroon eyes concealed by dark sunglasses had followed her movements and he cut through the oncoming pedestrian traffic like a knife through a silk scarf. Of course he had recognised her straight away, and intended to follow her but their foray into the side streets had made his plan somewhat more difficult as there was less foot traffic in which to conceal himself. Still he followed her, knowing she couldn’t live too far away if she was grocery shopping and nothing more.

He saw her disappear down a small street and hurried to the corner where he glimpsed the sight of her disappearing behind what he assumed to be her front door. Interested, he decided to survey the area and keep a close eye on the property to ensure she was not living with housemates. He had not heard from her since the day she walked out of his home, and he was curious about her still; he had so many questions – what was she doing in Paris? Had she given into her baser desires and indulged in a little murder? Had she been with anybody else? Been in love? He shook the last questions from his mind, knowing that it was not his place to know, but still he itched to see her.

His surveillance proved that she did indeed live alone, and once the last light in the little house had been extinguished he waited an hour before approaching the front door to let himself in. The lock clicked as he manipulated it with his tools and the door opened soundlessly, revealing a badly painted hallway. He quietly closed the door behind him and moved along the hall, entering a very small kitchen and fighting the urge to cluck his tongue disapprovingly at the sight of the washing up left in the bowl overnight.

He held himself stock still as soon as he heard the whisper of a blade, and felt the cool metal’s feather-light kiss upon his throat. “I see you haven’t lost your touch,” he commented quietly after a beat of stunned silence.

“I need to know I can protect myself if I need to.”

 “Mama?” came a small voice from the top of the stairs. “Mama, are you there?”

“I’ll be right up, Bea. Got to your room, okay?”

“Bea?” he echoed the nickname, tasting the single syllable, rolling it around in his head.

“Beatrice,” Abigail expanded for him.

“An interesting choice,” he commented in a measured tone, her blade still too close for comfort. “Dante?” He felt her nod. “Abigail, what say we sit down and talk like civilised adults, hmm?”

“You wore another man’s face, I don’t know what your version of ‘civilised’ is anymore, _Doctor_.”

“It was necessary for me to take such drastic measures in order to ensure my escape,” he explained slowly.

She opened her mouth to respond but was beaten to it by another call of “Mama!”

“I’m coming, Bea!” she ground out, hesitating before removing the knife from his throat. “You had better be here when I get back,” she stated, moving to the doorway of the kitchen.

“Go and see to your daughter, Abigail. I will be in the living room when you return; I mean you no harm.” She believed him; despite everything he was still a man of his word.

She hurried up the stairs and into the boxroom that she had turned into Bea’s bedroom. “What is it, Beatrice?” she snapped.

Beatrice shrunk away from her, hurt. “Why are you angry at me?”

“I’m not, sweetheart,” Abigail’s shoulders fell and she moved to caress the top of her daughter’s head affectionately, mussing her dark hair; “I’ve just bumped into somebody who I haven’t seen for a long time.”

“Who is he, Mama?”

“You haven’t been listening in, have you?” Bea’s face was a picture of guilt. “You know that’s rude, Bea; and you know what happens to rude little girls? Hmm?”

“Yes, Mama. Rude girls get no dessert.”

“Exactly. Now, you don’t need to worry about him, he’ll be leaving soon.” She kissed the top of the child’s head and pulled the covers tightly around her small form. “Get some sleep. I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” Abigail moved to the doorframe and cast her daughter one last glance before turning out the light and closing the bedroom door softly.

She descended the stairs and moved toward the living room, knife in hand once more; she couldn’t have him pulling any tricks, not with Bea in the house. She need not have worried as he sat on her sagging sofa, the picture of grace and class despite his surroundings. Abigail pocketed the knife and moved across the room to her own chair, flipping the floor lamp on to illuminate the room in a soft glow.

“Settled?” he enquired politely after the child and she nodded her confirmation.

“For now,” she sighed, tiredness washing over her and momentarily overriding her wariness of the man sitting across the room from her.

“You surely have questions for me, Abigail?”

“No. I gave up on the idea of asking you for anything some time ago.”

He nodded, his expression pensive. “I see. Might I try to explain my actions to you?”

“You can try but in all honesty I really don’t want to hear it.” She sniffed and fell silent for a moment before turning her eyes, blue as ever, to him accusingly. “You made no attempt to-" she stopped herself and readied her words before speaking again; "You didn’t even ask me to stay, you just let me walk out of the door.”

“I believe I told you there were other matters that-“

“And the next thing I know, your face is all over the world media with the headline ‘Hannibal the Cannibal’, and you’re this... this exaggerated monster figure, the stuff of nightmares,” she gestured wildly as she spoke at him, releasing her frustrations. “How do you think I felt when I had to listen to the gossip surrounding your case? How do you think I felt when I found out? I thought to myself, ‘how could he be so stupid?’ _Will Graham_? Really, Hannibal?”

“The temptation became too great and I took an opportunity which didn’t pan out so well for me.”

“Perhaps your head wasn’t in the game – it’s unlike you not to have finished the job.”

“The situation was bizarre, as was my own thought process at the time,” Hannibal admitted, though omitted the fact that his distracted state had been due to her, “and he saw something I hadn’t intended for him to.”

“Oh?”

“My sketches.”

“Oh. I see,” she answered flatly. “Which one?”

“Wound man.” He knew she knew the reference; he had shown it to her when she had watched him studying it one evening.

“Yes, I can see why that might have been a giveaway,” she agreed before falling silent.

His mind wandered back to the subject of Beatrice and he found himself wishing to probe Abigail for the details of her conception; the admission of her guilt. He knew she was capable of manipulation but to hide an affair from him, from his keen nose too, was not something he thought her capable of neither would he have guessed she would stoop so low.

“Tell me more about Beatrice,” he probed, noting how her eyes lit up at the mention of her daughter’s name.

“She’ll be turning nine in February.”

“Nine?” He did the math; before she left him then. He gave no hint that anything was amiss and that his suspicions grew, seeping hot and molten into his veins.

“She’s small for her age, but stronger than she looks,” Abigail replied, pride creeping into her voice. “I didn’t exactly take care of myself while I was pregnant – the news wasn’t exactly welcome – but thankfully she’s had no complications.”

“Abigail, if you could-”

“Don’t,” she cut in, not wanting to hear whatever he was going to suggest. “Just don’t even bother. I told you I couldn’t cope with the way you were behaving toward me at the time, so I left; there’s nothing more to it.”

“And Beatrice?”

“Beatrice was not planned.”

“So you haven’t approached her father?”

His question threw her momentarily and she took a moment before answering. “No. I didn’t think it was wise to – he was... otherwise engaged.”

“Married?” He would find out. "Did he lead you on?"

“No, nothing like that. It was... complicated.”

“I’ll bet.” He sniffed dismissively at the idea of some second-rate man pawing at her soft skin, partaking of her flesh in ways he knew would never match the way he had.

“What are you insinuating, Doctor Lecter?”

“That the dates don’t match,” he stated with quiet confidence.

“What are you talking about?” she questioned exasperatedly.

“You left in July.”

“And?”

“We had not been intimate in a long time, Abigail,” he said, allowing his words to hang in the air between them. “Who. Was. He?” he ground out, barely containing the betrayal he felt, despite the number of years having passed.

Her face paled further but her eyes hardened and when she spoke her voice pierced him like a thousand needles. “How dare you accuse me of infidelity? I was nothing but loyal to you, Hannibal... I- I can’t believe you would think that of me.” In that moment she looked far older than her years, and he surmised that raising a child on her own in a foreign country with no friends close by had taken its toll over time. He felt ashamed of himself for a moment, and his eyes wandered from her still form – he was sure she would ask him to leave soon on account of his behaviour, his baseless jealousy. His eyes alighted on a framed photo of the little girl perched atop the shelf behind Abigail. Hannibal let out a short, sharp breath of surprise – it couldn’t be? He rose from his chair, not noticing Abigail jump in surprise and watch him as he approached the photograph of the dark-haired child to study it more closely.

Violet. Her eyes were violet. There was only one way she could have ended up with such vibrant irises...

“She’s mine?” he breathed, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. Abigail didn’t respond, instead electing to study the threadbare rug, her lips set in a grim line. “You are certain?” She nodded once, though still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yet you did not deign to tell me?”

“What was I supposed to do? Write to you? It’d be all over the news before you even heard about it,” Abigail explained earnestly, voice softer than it had been all night.  “Besides, I followed your story - I know about that FBI Agent... Starling, or whatever.”

“Clarice? Yes. What about her?”

“She interests you,” Abigail stated.

“She does,” he admitted.

“The same way I did?”

“Never the same way as you, Abigail."

“Well I suppose that’s something.”


End file.
